In Every Lifetime
by EbonyEnigma
Summary: Inspired by Forever-Fangirl-PJO-HP's "How We Could Have Met", but Klaine edition. Kurt and Blaine were always meant to meet, but it could have been in a different place and time. These are some of those possible scenarios.
1. Pretzels

Hi again! Sorry it's been so long! I am trying to do something, anything, on Prisoner right now, but my efforts are failing miserably. You know how demigods' minds are hard wired for Ancient Greek? Well, mine seems to be hard wired for Klaine.  
Many, many thanks to Forever-Fangirl-PJO-HP for allowing me to take her great idea for "How We Could Have Met" and use it to further my obsession with this amazing ship.  
Also thanks to **Mancer** for reading it through even though pretzels make her drool and I have a really severe case of sillyromanticitis, and giving me her honest opinion on the fact that I included two musicals in here!

If I owned these characters, I would be out frolicking with them in a field. Or...something.

 _4:34._

Ugh. He'd been standing in line for twenty minutes.

Blaine looked up from his watch and leaned around the petite blonde woman in front of him. There were only two people in front of him in line at this point, so it would probably only be a few minutes, but he could feel his stomach growling. The last time he'd eaten had been eight o'clock this morning, when he'd grabbed a banana on the way out of his apartment.

The woman in front of him shifted forward, and the bored-looking middle-aged man on the other side of the counter said, "Next!" Blaine shot him a bright smile (which he missed) and asked for a container of pretzel bites, half-cinnamon sugar, half-salt.

"I'm sorry, young man, but we can't do that. You'll have to choose," said the man, who was now picking at a loose bit on his rubber glove.

Blaine blinked. "I've been here several times before, sir, and always gotten the same thing."

"Well, maybe it's time to try a little variety," snapped the man, whose name tag read _Sandy._

Blaine leaned forward, almost over the pretzel counter, ignoring the annoyed mutters of other customers behind him."Sir, there are an awful lot of loose variables in my life right now. Every day, something changes. But through it all, there are a few sacred constants I can always depend on, and one of those is mixed-flavor pretzel bites. Today has been a particularly head-spinning day in my life, one that may require the assistance of both _Rent_ and _Chicago_ to remedy. Could you please help me out here?"

"Sorry. I'm just following protocol," said Sandy with a cloyingly sweet smile. " _Choose a flavor_ , please."

Blaine sighed and leaned back. He knew when he was beaten.

"If I may?" said an unfamiliar voice from behind him. Blaine turned around, ready to fend off an annoyed fellow customer, and met a pair of bright blue eyes, a gorgeous teal sweater, and a small smile.

"Hi," said the man, wiggling his fingers in a little wave. "I heard your, um... _discussion._ On most days, I'd be willing to engage and fight to the death on behalf of those of us who make the choice not to choose a flavor. However, as today is an off day for me, I'd like to propose an alternate idea." He glanced behind him, then lowered his voice to a whisper. "Also, I think the masses are beginning to descend into anarchy, so let's just make this quick."

Blaine almost had to shut his own mouth with his hand, but he managed to gain control of himself for long enough to smile and say, "Shoot."

The other man's smile widened. His eyes crinkled at the corners. "I'll get cinnamon sugar. You'll get salt. Then we'll share them."

Blaine blinked at him. "You'll get cinnamon sugar…"

"You'll get salt. Or the other way around," the man said brightly. "I'm flexible on that."

 _I bet you're flexible on other things, too,_ Blaune thought. Then he blushed. He was dapper! He was chivalrous! He didn't think about things like that! His friends were having a bad influence on him.

Blaine took a deep breath to exorcise the inappropriate thoughts, and the brilliance of the plot finally sank in. He turned back to Sandy, sure that the smile on his face was bordering on sadistic. "One small container of salted pretzel bites, please," he said, voice dripping with that charmingly dapper politeness that can only be gained from four years of prep school.

If 'outwitted' were a facial expression, it would look exactly like Sandy's face in that moment. Blaine shot a grateful expression back at the blue-eyed man, who stepped up to order the cinnamon-sugar pretzels with almost tangible glee, and was met with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. It was then that Blaine decided: if he didn't manage to get this guy's number by the time they finished their pretzels, he didn't deserve to live.

He paid quickly, then claimed a table for two near the pretzel counter. A few moments later, the man dropped gracefully into the seat opposite him, crossing his legs and slinging his messenger bag across the back of the chair. He set the cup of pretzel bites on the table in front of him, then leaned forward towards Blaine. "Why do I suddenly feel like a drug dealer?"

"Because these are addictive and insanely hard to come by," Blaine said, taking a piece of pretzel from the cardboard cup with a smile that felt like it might stretch his mouth completely outside the parameters of his face.

The man looked at him thoughtfully, brushing a loose strand back into his otherwise-perfect upsweep of chestnut hair. Then he held out his hand. "Hi."

Blaine's breath caught in his throat for a second before he brushed the cinnamon sugar off his fingers onto his napkin and took the man's hand. "I'm Blaine."

"Kurt."

They shook. Kurt's hand was cool and very soft.

"God, now I _really_ feel like a drug dealer," Kurt said, letting out a brief, slightly breathy laugh. Blaine realized the handshake had been going on for too long, but made the wise decision to say nothing.

"Wait," Kurt said, withdrawing his hand and snagging a bite from Blaine's cup. " _You're_ not one, are you?"

"A drug dealer? No."

"Good. Because I have a very strict policy about people who might get me hooked on heroin."

Blaine raised an eyebrow, grabbing a salted pretzel bite. "What's that?"

Kurt reached over and plucked out a cinnamon-sugar one. "I don't date them."

Blaine's hand stilled over the cardboard cup, then pulled out a pretzel. "Any other criteria I should know about?"

"Nobody who's against musical theater, and nobody who has more than six cats."

Blaine held eye contact, still smiling. "I think I check out, then. How about Friday?"

Kurt looked down at the table, then poured the rest of Blaine's pretzel bites into his own cup. He pushed it to the center of the table and met Blaine's eyes again. "That'll definitely work."

For reference, small half-cinnamon sugar, half-salt bites are my pretzel order. In case any of you ever decides to buy me pretzels, just so I can say, "You know my pretzel order?" 


	2. Roommate

So, these will probably alternate points of view (Blaine, Kurt, Blaine, Kurt, Blaine...you get the idea). There may be exceptions, but it'll probably roll like that. Where Klaine leads, I will follow.

This one is gonna be longer. Much longer. I'll switch back and forth between POVs once or twice.

And I should probably mention that if I owned these characters, I would currently be playing their daughter in _Glee: The Next Generation._

 _Thump._

Kurt dropped the box (one of several labeled _Sheet Music_ ) on the floor of his dorm room, straightening up again with a sigh. He looked around, brushing perspiration off his forehead, where his bangs were beginning to droop from the California humidity.

"Kurt! I think this is the last one!" Burt Hummel called as he shuffled into the room, gait awkward because of the large box obscuring his vision.

"Dad! I told you not to carry anything! Your heart-" Kurt rushed over and took the box from his father, then almost fell over backwards when he discovered that it weighed about two ounces.

"Oh," he said with embarrassment, glancing down at the label that read simply _Mom._ "This is _that_ box."

"Yeah," said his dad simply.

Kurt looked down at the box for a second longer, then grabbed a pair of scissors from _School Supplies_ and slit it open. He looked down for a second at the single item inside, wrapped in layers and layers of protective bubble wrap, and pulled it out. He looked down at the framed photograph, losing himself in the bright blue eyes of the woman inside, in the wavy chestnut hair flowing down her back.

"She loved you so much, kid," Burt said, eyes misty with emotion as he looked at the picture, then back at his son, so much like the woman he had loved. "And look what you've done for yourself here. You've come so far from Ohio."

Kurt sniffed, then looked up from the picture, nodding at his father. "Thanks, Dad." He crossed the room in a few steps and set the picture on the small desk, angling it just right. Then he stood and turned a slow three-sixty around the room, taking in the bare white walls and minimalistic furniture, the bright California sunshine streaming through the white-curtained window. He really had come far-over two thousand miles-but he'd also come in a completely different direction than he had originally envisioned. Instead of heading east to brave the bright lights of the Big Apple, he'd come west, come all the way to Stanford University.

New York had always been Kurt's biggest dream...until, suddenly, it wasn't. And it really wasn't, not anymore. He'd been drawn here, to the panache of California, to the red tile roofs and free-thinking attitude of Stanford.

Did he regret it? Of course not. Kurt Hummel never regretted anything.

His mind, of its own accord, flew back to Regionals with the New Directions, to a gorgeous boy with a navy blazer and an apparent hair gel obsession.

Well. Maybe there was one thing.

His dad cleared his throat and Kurt jolted back to reality. "Sorry, Dad. What were you saying?"

"I think I'll go out and try to find something to eat. You wanna come?"

Kurt looked around at his boxes and blew out a breath so long it pushed up his coiffed bangs. "No, thanks. I'm going to stay and start unpacking. Grab me a sandwich while you're out, though? And be healthy, Dad."

"Sure thing, kid. Call me if you need anything." And with that, Burt left, straightening his baseball cap.

Kurt turned back to the mess of boxes and began unpacking quickly, pulling out neatly folded clothes first, hanging them up by type and then color. It was comforting, organizing the bright garments, seeing that they, at least, had not changed. They never had, not when Karofsky had pushed him into lockers, not when the red jackets had thrown cold blue liquid into his face, not when the glee club had ignored him for years. They had stained, sometimes, and torn, but they were always there, safe against his skin and in his closet, a fortress from which he could protect himself with words that stabbed and boiled.

And he had not changed either, had not fallen prey to the cycle of conform-or-be-conformed. He was still himself, Kurt Hummel, with dreams that could stain and tear but would never die.

His dreams would never die, he told himself.

Which was why he didn't do more than let out a loud shriek when he turned around and found one of them staring him in the face.

Blaine seriously hoped he hadn't permanently damaged his gorgeous new roommate. That would be a crying shame.

"I'm Blaine," he said, switching hands on his suitcase to hold out his right to the other boy.

"Kurt," said the guy on whom Blaine had snuck up while he was hanging clothes. "I hope you're my roommate, because I know you, at least. Well, kind of. Certainly better than anybody else around here," he commented with a smile that was a little shy, but bright.

Blaine did a double-take. Now that he thought about it, the tall, slender young man standing in front of him did look very familiar. He could remember him, singing behind a petite girl with long chocolate-dark hair, looking otherworldly beneath the lights of-which stage?

"Oh!" Blaine gasped as realization struck. "You were part of...the New Directions? Right?"

 _I'm not just making that up because I_ want _to have known you?_ he added in his head.

"You remember that?" said...Kurt (his name was nice, Blaine thought. He wondered if it had anything to do with _The Sound of Music._ He'd have to ask at some point). "I just sang backup."

"How could I forget?" Blaine said with a bright smile, then wanted to slap himself across the face. _Dial it back, Blaine. Dial it back._

Kurt didn't seem to mind, though. His cheeks turned a little pink, and he smiled. "I've claimed this bed," he said, gesturing to the one on which his books were stacked in precarious piles. "Hope that's okay."

"Definitely okay."

It seemed to Kurt as though he had been waiting his whole life for someone like Blaine, and now that he'd found him, he had no clue what on Earth to do about it.

They talked easily for nearly an hour about nothing, becoming so engaged in the conversation that each left his respective task in order to sit-by tacit consensus-on Kurt's bed, Blaine's legs crossed, Kurt's folded underneath him.

They talked about music, each pulling out a phone to rock out to tastes they had in common or to convince the other about music towards they were apathetic.

They talked about books, marveled over the childhood classics, the Harry Potters, the autobiography of Patti LuPone that _of course_ they had read.

They were partway into a conversation about gay marriage when Burt reentered the small room and stopped short. The two young men were sitting so close their foreheads were almost touching, and Blaine was gesturing wildly to Kurt, who had a hard, bright edge in his blue eyes as he nodded fiercely.

"It's like, if marriage is so sacred, they should just outlaw divorce!" Blaine exclaimed, and Kurt responded with an almost breathless, "Right! Right!"

Burt cleared his throat and they both turned around. Kurt's cheeks were still pink and his eyes still shining, but he managed to speak with some measure of calm. "Um. Dad, this is-"

"Blaine Anderson, sir," Blaine finished his sentence smoothly, hopping off the bed and extending his hand with a wide smile. "Lovely to meet you."

Kurt shot him a grateful look. With Burt Hummel, politeness was a must. Even if his dad wasn't exactly high society himself, he valued when people did things right-especially if those people were good-looking boys rooming with his son.

"Good to meet you, too, Blaine," Burt said with a slightly uncomfortable cough. "Brought you a sandwich, Kurt."

"Thanks, Dad!" Kurt said brightly, taking the sandwich.

Burt looked down at his watch and started with surprise. "Hey, kid, I better get going. I have to leave now if I want to make it out of the state by tomorrow."

Kurt swallowed back a lump in his throat and clutched the sandwich a little tighter. "Okay, Dad."

His father moved closer and wrapped his arms around Kurt, the sandwich crushed between their bodies. "I love you, Kurt," he whispered gruffly. "I'm so proud of you."

"I love you too, Dad," Kurt said, trying desperately to hold back tears and not quite succeeding.

Burt eventually pulled away and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He coughed a little and then gave a slightly apprehensive Blaine a clap on the shoulder. "Take care of my son," he told him.

"Dad!" Kurt gasped. But Blaine only gave him a slightly amused look before saying, "I will, sir," and Kurt tried desperately to hold back a watery grin and didn't quite succeed.

"Good," Burt said, and then he gave Kurt another hug, just a quick grasp and the familiar scratch of flannel.

Then he was gone, with a final, "Love you, kid. Come back for Thanksgiving in one piece, yeah?"

"I will, Dad," Kurt whispered, fighting the urge to run after him like a six-year-old.

Blaine gave him a sympathetic look and held out his arms. Kurt rushed into them without thinking, breathing the new-but-somehow-familiar scent of his too-gelled hair (was that... _raspberry?_ ) and thinking that this, however different it was, felt just as much like home as Burt's arms.

"How about a walk? Clear your head?" Blaine asked, pulling away enough to meet Kurt's eyes with his own, a clear, soft shade of hazel.

Kurt took another shaky breath and nodded. "Yeah, that...that would be nice."

They headed out, grabbing their IDs and locking the door as they left. The elevator was stiflingly hot, but once they got outside, it was cooler and almost dark, with the barest shadow of a full moon beginning to show just overhead.

A breeze riffled through Kurt's hair, found nothing interesting, and headed off in another direction, leaving him rumpled. Blaine's helmet of gel remained stoic and unperturbed.

They had left intending to go nowhere in particular, so Kurt was astonished when they reached the Quad just as the last glimmer of sun disappeared over the horizon. He looked over at Blaine, who shrugged back as if to say, _Lucky, I guess._

Even his shrugs were expressive. Kurt made a mental note for later.

They had barely gone ten feet into the Quad when they found a couple kissing. A few feet farther on, there was another. Kurt looked around him, confused, for a moment, before Blaine suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, hey! I read about this. Apparently there's a Stanford tradition of seniors kissing freshmen here under the full moon."

So that explained it. For a silly teenage moment, Kurt couldn't help wishing he were a senior. He glanced over at Blaine for a moment and was surprised to find him looking back, eyes large and thoughtful in the dim blue-tinged light.

Then Blaine kissed him softly, gently, as though he wanted to make sure that every part of him stayed perfectly intact.

Kurt almost stumbled backward with the sheer _new_ ness of the sensation. He'd never been kissed before-at least, not one that counted. And certainly not ever by someone he thought he could love.

When Blaine pulled away, Kurt was so dumbfounded that all he could think to say was, "You're not a senior."

Blaine grinned brighter than the moon. "Who cares?"

When Blaine leaned in again, Kurt kissed him back.


	3. Gala

Third chapter of this fic in twenty-four hours, fourth chapter overall. I think I have a legitimate problem.

I own a larynx which I use to sing (and talk, but much less frequently). I do not, however, own Kurt and Blaine.

I wonder if I could trade. Ariel did, and it turned out fine for her. Eventually.

Blaine was sick.

He should have known this morning, when he made the stupid decision to go to class, because he just _couldn't_ skip, he just _couldn't._ He hadn't known why, but he would figure it out as soon as the room stopped spinning

That probably should have been his first clue.

He should have known this afternoon, when he made the really stupid decision to try to walk home. He told himself that he was a New Yorker now, and New Yorkers didn't back down. New Yorkers were pugnacious. Even if they couldn't exactly remember what the word pugnacious meant because they couldn't see or think straight (yes, very funny, sexuality pun, ha-ha), so they were only using it because it reminded them of puppies.

That should have been his second.

He _especially_ should have known when he stumbled into this swanky hotel (and Jesus Christ, was he actually using the word _swanky?_ ) and couldn't distinguish it from his (equally swanky, courtesy of Anderson, Calvert, and Tarleton) apartment building.

But, of course, being the _idiot_ that he was, he only realized when he tripped out of the elevator on the thirteenth floor and suddenly found himself surrounded by men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns.

Blaine was wearing sweatpants.

In hindsight, that probably should have been his, like, forty-sixth clue.

Blaine stared around the ballroom, up at the chandelier, and at the dozens of socialites milling about, and for some reason, he could only think of one thing: an old country song he'd listened to with his mother when he was very young.

 _Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots_

 _And ruined your black-tie affair._

"Um, excuse me?"

 _The last one to know_

 _The last one to show_

"Excuse me?"

 _I was the last one you'd thought you'd see there._

"Hey!"

Blaine turned then, vision still blurry and footing unsteady.

 _I could see the surprise_

 _And the fear in his eyes_

The next lyrics faded from his mind as he met the (indeed surprised and fearful, but oh-so-blue) eyes of the young man standing in front of him.

"Hi," he said, looking apprehensively about him, then placing a gentle hand on Blaine's lower back and guiding him toward a tall white column at the edge of the ballroom (Blaine was glad, because walking by himself was maybe not a good idea in his current condition). "Sorry about this, and not to assume or anything, but...you weren't invited to this party, were you?"

Blaine didn't even try to think of a lie. He knew those eyes would see right through him anyway. They were piercing. Like Dumbledore's. He wanted to get to know this guy better, to see if they would twinkle like Dumbledore's when he smiled.

"No," he said. Then his brain caught up to his mouth and he hastily added, "But I'm not trying to crash it or anything, I was just trying to find my apartment and actually, this party is, like, the absolute _worst_ place in the world right now."

The boy looked a little offended, and his eyes turned cold. Blaine wanted to yell at them, tell them to try twinkling instead, because he wanted to see if they could. He wanted to see if he could make the boy smile.

"I organized it," said the sad blue eyes, sounding put out. It took a second for Blaine to understand why.

"Oh, no, it's a very nice party. Very-" his feverish mind searched for the correct adjective- "Very chic. But I'm sick. And feeling really terrible. So I can't appreciate the...the chic-ness to the extent it deserves." He broke off to cough and sneeze almost simultaneously, producing a sound that was vaguely reminiscent of a dying dolphin attempting to imitate a donkey.

He heard a soft giggle from above and pulled his head up immediately, ignoring the nausea for a second so that he could see if the boy's eyes really twinkled. They did, and Blaine resisted the urge to fist pump, because he was already being ridiculously dorky.

"What?" asked the twinkly blue eyes.

"I wanted to see you smile," Blaine blurted before he could stop himself.

The eyes widened and the cheeks below them turned pink. Blaine slapped his hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry," he said between his fingers. "My head hurts. I'm not usually this forward, I swear."

He was pleasantly surprised when the boy pulled him closer and stood up, dragging Blaine's nearly-dead-weight with him. "Come on," he grunted, "I have somewhere you can lie down."

"Thank you," Blaine breathed, straightening up as much as he could and walking slowly after the boy, feet dragging. "I'm Blaine, by the way."

"Kurt."

Kurt led Blaine to a small door, almost indistinguishable from the white wall around it, and shepherded him in, glancing around before ducking in himself. Blaine immediately collapsed onto the threadbare couch inside, sighing as the nausea subsided. "Thank you."

Kurt sat on the chair opposite him, smiling a little. "No problem."

"But don't you need to get out there?" Blaine asked. "Be host-y?"

"Nope. That's my boss's job. I was specifically shown this room before the party, so I could 'relax' if I 'got overwhelmed'. They practically told me to 'be in my room, making no noise and pretending I don't exist.'"

Blaine stared. "Did you just make a Harry Potter reference?"

Kurt blushed violently. "Oh, God, I did. It was basically subconscious. I'm such a nerd."

"Yeah. You are," Blaine said. "It's really cute." Then he actually hit himself in the head with a hand. "Sorry, sorry! I have no mind-to-mouth filtering system right now."

"That's okay," Kurt said. His eyes were twinkling again. "It's really cute."

Blaine sat up, rubbing his head. The dizziness might overwhelm him soon, so he had to get this out before he passed out and never saw Kurt again. "Kurt, there is a scarily large possibility that I may not remember some or all of this tomorrow, so can I ask you something?"

"Sure," said the inquisitive blue eyes.

"Can I get your number?"

Kurt grinned, big and bright. "I was hoping you were going to ask that."


	4. One Week

Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome!  
Fremde, etranger, stranger.

So, this is a musical chapter. *jazz hands* *shimmy* *high kick*. It chronicles a week in the AU life of one Blaine Anderson. Next one will be Kurt POV, I promise!

Songs are:

 _Blackbird_ -The Beatles (covered by Kurt in _Original Song_ )

 _Defying Gravity_ - _Wicked_ (covered by Kurt and Rachel in _Wheels)_

 _I'm The Greatest Star_ \- _Funny Girl_ (covered by Kurt in _I Am Unicorn)_

 _Being Alive_ \- _Company_ (covered by Kurt in _Swan Song)_

 _Rose's Turn - Gypsy_ (covered by Kurt in _Laryngitis_ )

 _Sakura Kiss - Ouran High School Host Club_

 _I See The Light - Tangled_

I own several obsessions and a huge crush on Darren Criss. Sadly, I do not own

Klaine.

When Blaine sees him for the first time, it's a Monday, which he's always hated, because on things like this, he's very mainstream. Everyone hates Mondays. So does Blaine.

Obviously, this incident changes his entire outlook on Mondays.

He's walking down his favorite out-of-the way path at the east end of Central Park when he hears his voice for the first time. It's high and melodic and beautiful, and Blaine untucks his chin from the neck of his peacoat to listen.

He can barely make out the lyrics, but he recognizes it easily-an old song, but a good one, and the voice singing it is better than good-whoever it is is absolutely entrancing.

" _Blackbird singing in the dead of night,_

 _Take these broken wings and learn to fly…"_

Blaine snaps out of his daze when a young blond man jogs past him, muttering something about Mentos and air. He quickly detects the voice again and follows it around a line of shrubs, halting when he gets within twenty yards of its source.

" _All your life_

 _You were only waiting for this moment to arise…"_

The young man is standing with his back to Blaine, feet apart precisely the width of his hips, back straight in perfect singing posture. Chestnut hair sweeps up into a gravity-defying coiffure.

Unaware of Blaine's presence, he keeps singing.

" _You were only waiting for this moment to arise..._

 _You were only waiting for this moment to arise…"_

Blaine can imagine the music fading in his earbuds, and the guy grimaces as he pulls his phone from his pocket.

"Yes, Rachel. I'm here again...I am _not_! Not _every_ day! Just most days…"

Most days? As in, over half? As in, if Blaine came here every day, he'd have over a 50% chance of seeing him again?

"...Whatever. I'm coming. See you…Yup, still here. I'll pick up the tofu on the way...okay, bye."

Blaine whips behind a tree, simultaneously hoping the man will and won't come his way. Luckily (or unluckily), he turns in the opposite direction. Blaine sighs and leans his head back against the tree. He will _not_ come back here intentionally tomorrow in hopes of seeing him again. He will _not._ He's not that desperate.

Oh God.

He's _so_ coming back tomorrow.

It's Tuesday. Blaine's willpower is zero. Any other facts worth knowing? Blaine thinks not.

He walks along his normal path, but everything's different today. The colors are crisper, the smells stronger, the sounds louder.

This is a new level of creepy.

He casually, nonchalantly circles calmly around the bend and doesn't keep out an ear for anything. At all.

" _I think I'll try_

 _Defying gravity…_

 _Kiss me goodbye_

 _I'm defying gravity…"_

There he is! There he is! Blaine almost jumps up and down, then realizes that this, what he's doing, is bordering on creepy.

But.

He _has_ to see him again.

So Blaine turns the corner.

" _And you won't bring me down! Bring me down…"_ And oh God, that's an F5. What kind of range does this guy have?

And then the song is over, and Blaine wishes he'd sing another but as he peeks around the edge of his birch tree's smooth white-barked surface the man's hoisting a satchel onto his shoulder and turning to leave and Blaine desperately wishes that he weren't such a coward but then the man is gone before he can step out from behind the tree and he curses whoever Rachel is and _God-please-don't-let-her-be-the-girlfriend-please-please-please._

Blaine sighs and reluctantly turns to head home, tucking a loose strand of curly hair behind one ear.

It's Wednesday. The man isn't there.

Blaine hates Wednesdays.

Thursday. It rains, but Blaine still treks out to Central Park. By the time he arrives, the downpour has slackened off to a slow drizzle, but his boat shoes make unpleasant squelching sounds with each quiet step.

" _Who's the pip with pizzazz? Who's all ginger and jazz? Who's an American beauty rose, with an American beauty nose, and ten American beauty toes?"_

Blaine grins widely and walks a little faster. He rounds the bushes and carefully stands in the lee of his customary birch.

" _Hey, Mr. Keeney! Here I am!"_

The song's near the end, Blaine knows, from the numerous times he's listened to it, and he wishes it wouldn't ever have to end, so the man wouldn't have to leave.

At the very least, he wishes he could muster the courage to go and _talk_ to him. It really shouldn't be this hard.

" _Looking down, you'll never see me! Try the sky, 'cause that'll be me!"_

Blaine wonders if he goes to NYADA. With a voice like that, how could he not? Maybe Blaine's seen him before, and just hasn't noticed. He wonders what other things he could've seen if he'd just taken a second to look around.

He wonders _who_.

It's Friday.

To be honest, until he got to New York, Blaine had always been fairly apathetic towards Fridays. There'd never really been any appeal. _Oh, yay, I get to go home for two days and do whatever Dad's planned to make me straight_ this _week!_

Whoopee.

But once he'd come here, new avenues of exploration had opened. He can go out with friends to a bar or to see a play. He can walk through the streets, finding new routes and getting lost and being found again. He can just stay home and blast Katy Perry music as loud as he wants, and no one will complain.

Or he can go to the park in hopes of seeing the guy.

Blaine chooses the fourth option.

Obviously.

As he rounds his usual corner, keeping his ear out, he hears what he was looking for.

" _Somebody, crowd me with love_

 _Somebody, force me to care_

 _Somebody, let me come through…"_

Blaine wants to jump out from behind the tree and shout, 'I'm somebody! I'll do it! Pick me!'

But _God,_ how would he explain _that_?

" _Being alive_

 _Being alive_

 _Being alive…"_

He holds the last note, thrumming with the tingle of vibrato, then lets it fall.

Blaine sighs quietly and turns to go, but stops when he hears a quiet voice from behind him.

"I have to get in. Please, let me get in."

Blaine's bursting with questions. Get in to what? Who is he? What's his name? Will he think Blaine's a total creep?

But he turns to go anyway.

He hopes the man gets into whatever it is.

When Blaine was young, his mother used to read him a series of books called _The Saturdays,_ about four children who would have all kinds of adventures. In the first, they go out every Saturday and explore New York. He feels like Randy Melendy now as he steps out of his apartment building on Saturday and walks down to Central Park, waving at people as they pass and shooting bright smiles at children walking by.

When Blaine hits his usual path, his joy diminishes a little when he hears no singing, but instead the fluctuating mezzo piano of spoken conversation.

"I still can't believe it!...Rachel, I…"

Rachel? As in, Rachel on the phone?

"Kurt, you're immensely talented, we've always known…"

Kurt? Blaine practically runs around the corner and comes to a stop.

They're there, and luckily facing away from him. The young woman, Rachel, is a good eight inches shorter than the man, but it's obvious that she, too, is about Blaine's age.

Wait. Rachel. Where has he seen her before? She seems familiar.

"Do you still have the letter?" she queries eagerly. "I want to read it again."

"Of course," the man snorts. "I've been hoping that by carrying it around I'll imbibe some of the essence of Carmen Tibideaux through her signature." He pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to her.

" _Dear Mr. Hummel_ ," she reads. " _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the spring semester program at the New York Academy for the Dramatic Arts."_

NYADA! He's going to NYADA?

"It never stops being thrilling," he says with a smile.

Blaine feels like an intruder...even more than usual. He turns to leave. Maybe tomorrow there'll be more singing and less talking. Blaine's never been very good with spoken words.

But these words have told him something.

And that something is _Kurt Hummel._

Blaine manages to extricate himself from a rather awkward conversation with his father - his first in several weeks - in time to rush to the park at the usual time. As a result, his hair is barely gelled and he thinks his shoes might be on the wrong feet, but he wants to hear the man sing again, since he skipped yesterday.

One would think that on _Sun_ day, the sun would trouble itself to come out, but no, the clouds stubbornly persist in covering it. Blaine wouldn't really care, but it's New York City and it's December and it's _cold_. Some _Lumos solem_ might be nice right about now.

He snaps out of his thoughts as he turns off the path and hears Kurt singing again.

" _Well, someone, tell me; when is it my turn?_

 _Don't I get a dream for myself?"_

Blaine grins and stands next to his customary tree, listening quietly. This has begun to feel like a routine. He's even started to think about getting up the nerve to approach Kurt at the beginning of spring semester. Maybe he'll finally have enough guts then.

The last " _For me!_ " rings out and Blaine watches as Kurt turns to leave. As he walks away with a spring in his step, a different song comes to mind.

 _I see you come_

 _I watch you go_

 _You never seem to leave me, though._

It's Monday again.

Blaine's day has been seriously awful.

Like, seriously.

In a wildly improbable combination of events, his alarm clock refused to go off, his favorite coffee shop was closed, his professors each assigned a ridiculous amount of homework, and he tripped over a chair as soon as he reached his apartment. He couldn't even make it to the park on time.

Two hours later than usual, Blaine stumbles into Central Park. He feels awful and he knows that Kurt won't be there, because he never comes this late. However, he also knows that if he hadn't come, he'd have ended up sitting in his apartment and wondering if Kurt would've been there.

He reaches the usual turn off and rounds the corner, bracing himself to see Kurt's usual spot empty, full of dead leaves and yellowing grass, but with no chestnut hair in sight.

But there is someone there, and not just anyone.

Blaine smiles. His day is looking up.

Kurt is just starting tonight, much later than usual, but just as energetic. Blaine immediately recognizes the song, which might be kind of weird, considering which song it is.

" _All those days_

 _Watching from the windows_

 _All those years_

 _Outside looking in._

 _All that time_

 _Never even knowing_

 _Just how blind I've been."_

Blaine grins. Disney songs and a crush. What better way to spend a cold Monday night?

" _Now I'm here_

 _Blinking in the starlight._

 _Now I'm here_

 _Suddenly I see_

 _Standing here_

 _It's all so clear_

 _I'm where I'm meant to be…"_

It really is beautiful, better than the original, and sounding as though Kurt's singing right to him. In fact...is his voice getting closer?

" _And at last I see the light_

 _And it's like the fog has lifted._

 _And at last I see the light_

 _And it's like the sky is new_

 _And it's warm and real and bright_

 _And the world has somehow shifted…"_

Blaine sighs a little and straightens.

And then, as if by magic, Kurt is there next to him. In the flesh. Not twenty feet away.

" _All at once, everything is different_

 _Now that I see you…"_

Kurt grins at him and pulls out one earbud. "This is a duet, you know."

Blaine is unable to speak. He just stands there with his mouth open.

Kurt rolls his eyes and hands Blaine the earbud.

Then again, Blaine thinks, he's never been very good with the spoken word.

He puts the earbud in and catches up to where they are in the music, eyes flicking up to meet Kurt's, dark blue in the dim light.

He takes a deep breath and starts to sing.

" _All those days_

 _Chasing down a daydream."_

Kurt's still looking at him steadily, a slow smile spreading across his face.

" _All those years_

 _Living in a blur._

 _All that time_

 _Never truly seeing_

 _Things_

 _The way they were."_

Blaine begins to be more comfortable now, smiling back at Kurt confidently. He changes out the pronouns in the next segment without a second thought.

" _Now he's here,_

 _Shining in the starlight._

 _Now he's here,_

 _Suddenly I know."_

He takes a breath. Here goes nothing.

" _If he's here,_

 _It's crystal clear,_

 _I'm where I'm meant to go…"_

He looks at Kurt a little questioningly, but his voice joins Blaine's immediately, without a waver.

" _And at last I see the light…"_

It's beautiful, the way they meld together, sacred somehow. Blaine pulls himself together. " _And it's like the fog has lifted."_

" _And at last I see the light…"_

" _And it's like the sky is new,"_ Kurt sings, hitting the high note effortlessly.

" _And it's warm and real and bright,_

 _And the world has somehow shifted…"_

A branch above them shifts in the wind, casting a different shadow over Kurt's face, and Blaine tries to pour all his soul into his song.

" _All at once_

 _Everything is different._

 _Now that I see you…_

 _Now that I see you."_

The music fades and Blaine takes out the earbud and hands it back to Kurt.

There's a loud silence, full of the soundless sounds of leaves rustling and grass blowing gently.

"So, um...that was really great. And you have a beautiful voice. And you must think I'm a total creep. I'm sorry, I swear I never tried to stalk you or anything-" Blaine spurts out in an attempt at compensation for watching Kurt creepily for the past week.

When he thinks about it, maybe that wasn't the best way to broach that particular issue.

"I spotted you a week ago. It's not a big deal. I was mostly flattered. Besides, I don't think anyone with a Brooks Brothers messenger bag is really the stalking type."

Blaine sighs out a breath he hadn't been holding. Then he's oxygen deprived, so he inhales quickly. "Well, that's good to hear. Uh, I'm Blaine." He holds out a hand.

"Kurt." The other man takes it.

Blaine grins. "I know a really good restaurant a few blocks from here. Would you want to come to dinner with me?"

Kurt tightens his grip on Blaine's hand. "I'd love that."

Yup. Blaine really loves Mondays.

So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, goodnight!


	5. Superhero--Part I

Hello, twelve, hello thirteen, hello Klainers (and friends who are only reading this because I have somehow wormed my way into your hearts)!

Okay, so this one is a little different. First of all, this chapter is very short. That is because this is the first segment of a multi-chapter AU. I am already working on the second segment, so hopefully it won't be long.

The second thing is that this one is definitely darker than the others. I am a naturally dark, dramatic writer, so this feels like reverting back to my natural octave after singing a tenor song.

I own a new guitar (YAY!) but not Klaine (aww).

 **Friday, September 19th, 2014**

 **11:31 pm**

It was very dark.

She shivered a little.

A voice from the shadow at the side of the road.

"Hey. Can I help you with anything?"

She moistened her lips, tasting the not-really-unflavored Floral Fantasy lipstick she'd applied earlier that evening.

"Uh, yeah, maybe. I can't find where I turn off, and my phone's dead. Could you tell me how to get to Park from here?"

Movement from the shadow. A man stepped out into the flickering streetlight.

"Depends. What are you willing to trade?" he questioned, grinning at her.

She stepped back, nearly tripping over her stilettos. He moved forward, closer. She wanted to run, but was rendered immobile by trepidation. This was not the type of character with whom she usually preferred to be involved.

He was much too close now, leering wider.

Another shape moved quickly out of the shadows on the other side of the street. She braced herself to witness another unsavory character, but instead was surprised by-

"Get away from her," said the newcomer. She couldn't make out anything about him, and peering closer, she realized that he was wearing a full-body suit of fitted sky-blue fabric, nearly glowing in the dark lee of a dead-bulb lamppost.

"Why should I? Does she belong to you?" the aggressor asked, turning an annoyed eye toward the other man.

"No," he said. "She belongs to herself, and I'm fairly sure she doesn't want you around. Beat it." This man's voice was remarkably high and clear, completely unwavering.

Her attacker looked a little confused, but quickly recovered himself. "What makes you so sure?" He reached out and, leering, set a hand on her shoulder. She managed to inch away.

The blue mask tilted. The man stepped out of the shadow and made his way slowly across the road. He had a dancer's frame, lithe and lightly muscular, and he walked with a sway of confidence.

"Tell me," he said, with a wry lilt in his voice, "are you ashamed of being an illiterate Neanderthal, or is it a source of personal pride?"

He reached them and yanked the man away from her. "I said _, don't touch her._ Now get away and don't ever come near a girl again. Besides, this one's way out of your league."

Even in the midst of the conflict, her cheeks pinkened a little.

The man huffed a little, then walked away, sending one last glance up and down her frame as he departed.

She shivered again, then turned to her savior. He was still there, by her side. He nodded. "Be seeing you."

Then he disappeared. Right in front of her eyes. All that remained was a whistled tune on the breeze. She thought for a moment, memorizing it, but couldn't quite place where it came from.

Then she turned in a circle, saw her turnoff, and made her way back to her apartment. She'd worry about finding the mystery man later.

 **Saturday, September 20th, 2014**

 **1:17 am**

He stumbled out of the club.

Exhale: a heady mixture of alcohol, writhing bodies, and thumping bass. Inhale: blunt, chilly air, sharpened with cigarette smoke emanating from a nearby alley.

Exhale. Inhale.

Exhale. Inh-

The rhythm was suddenly blocked by a rough hand covering his mouth, stifling his sharp yell of shock. The hand's accompanying torso escorted him roughly to the alley off the street, disregarding the complaint he was registering with kicking feet and punching fists. He tried to pry the hand free, but failed.

Suddenly, the man lugging him tripped. He took his chance. Using all the strength left in his legs, he pushed himself up. Despite the best efforts of the various types of alcohol he'd consumed, he managed to run in a straight line toward the opening at the end of the alleyway, almost there, to the end of the dank, narrow passage, surely someone would be there-

The same hand grabbed his shoulder.

Almost sobbing with desperation, he struggled, but the attempt was futile. The hand began dragging him backwards, farther back, and his attacker's other hand was over his mouth again.

Then, suddenly, there was a heavy sound, like air being shoved rather rudely, and the heavy pressure was gone. His captor was wrenched off him, and the hand over his mouth left him. He took a deep breath in.

He spun around to find whoever had pulled the man off, and was confronted by his assailant being rendered immobile. He was on the ground, curled up and gasping for breath. Above him stood another man, shorter and compact, muscular and dressed in what appeared to be a unitard. His Spandexed savior dealt the aggressor another kick to the ribs, then turned toward him. He offered him his open hand, palm up.

"Need a hand?" he asked, voice perfectly composed despite the circumstances.

He took it, bemused. Who _was_ this dude?

The other man pulled him to his feet. His face was smudged out by the darkness, but he could almost feel him smiling.

"Be safe from now on. Capiche?" said the mystery man.

He nodded dumbly.

The man turned to go, and he gasped at what was happening in front of his eyes. Even in the dimness, it was impossible to miss the pair of bird-like wings unfurling from the man's back, stretching an impressive length against the navy sky.

The man began to run down the alley, gathering speed, wingtips brushing the walls although they weren't close to fully extended. When he reached the end, he took a leap and soared away, flapping strongly, into the darkness.

He stared for a full two minutes, then rushed back into the nightclub, on alert now. He had to find out what was going on.

Hey, if anyone figured out why Kurt's power is invisibility, review or PM me (a hint: it has something to do with the song he whistled).

Until next time, I bid you adieu.


End file.
